A Flagrant Abuse of Privilege
by gravyboatoflurve
Summary: Hermione is unexpectedly awakened one Sunday morning to find a surprise awaiting her--and she's not happy about it. Well, at least not at first. Features smirking Slytherins, silk dressing gowns, and gratuitous use of the word "canoodling".


A Flagrant Abuse of Privilege

_Knock, knock, knock_!

Hermione's sleepy eyelids fluttered open, and she moaned, rolling over to check the clock at the side of her bed. 10:00 a.m. She sighed and brought one hand up to push her thick mane of hair away from her face, and then her eyes jerked back to the clock. 10 am! Hermione sat up so quickly that she nearly fell out of bed, throwing off her covers and leaping to the floor. The world swirled foggily around her as she adjusted to being awake and upright, her confusion magnified by the panic she felt. Hermione Granger never slept until ten o'clock. What had she been thinking? The details of last night began to seep slowly into her sleep-muddled brain—studying for the Potions NEWTS with Neville, losing track of time, stumbling back into bed far too late for her own good…and oh, yes, the Befuddlement Draught they'd brewed. Neville had finally gotten it right; apparently _too_ right, as she was still having difficulty focusing her eyes, and her head seemed extremely fuzzy.

She was brought back to reality as the knocks repeated themselves. "Coming," she called, pulling the low neck of her nightgown together so as to maintain a shred of decorum and wishing momentarily that she hadn't sent her dressing gown to be cleaned the previous afternoon. As it was, she looked disheveled and somewhat less than respectable. She glanced across the room at Ginny's bed and frowned as the sleeping form didn't even stir. How typical that she'd still be in bed! Hermione swore that the Weasleys were incapable of functioning at a decent hour.

A third series of knocks interrupted her thoughts. Hermione huffed and proceeded to the door, opening it just slightly to be certain she wasn't admitting any of the Gryffindor boys. She'd always been a stickler for dressing modestly, and the thought of Ron or Harry seeing her in nothing but a thin nightdress was less than appealing. As it turned out, she needn't have worried; upon glancing outside, she came face-to-face with a rather harried looking McGonagall.

"Professor?" Hermione managed, her voice still a bit hoarse from sleeping. All the gears in her brain still seemed not to be quite functioning. It was Sunday, after all, not to mention the lingering effects of the Befuddlement Draught, and she'd never received a visit from a teacher in the Head Girl's room before. It was rather a lot for her to take in. Surely she hadn't missed an appointment? She cleared her throat and continued, as politely as she could under the circumstances, "Can I help you with something?"

"Good morning, Miss Granger. Is Miss Weasley in? She was supposed to meet me to work on her Transfiguration project." Disapproval edged into McGonagall's voice as she finished. "Forty-five minutes ago."

Hermione sighed, rather relieved that she wasn't the one at fault, but exasperated with Ginny for being so careless. "She's asleep, Professor. Would you like me to wake her up for you?"

"By all means, Miss Granger."

Hermione let the door swing fully open as she turned and walked back toward Ginny's bed, where she could just see the tip of her roommate's nose poking out from under the covers. She leaned down over the bed and spoke her name.

"Ginny?" She stirred slightly but didn't move otherwise, so Hermione tried again, a little more loudly this time. "Ginny?" Hermione reached a hand out toward her shoulder, but before she could shake her, Ginny sat straight up.

Hermione squinted, her vision still not completely back to 20/20, and tried to make sense of what she was so fuzzily seeing. Her roommate had apparently cropped her hair short and died it black sometime during the night. And her features—Hermione was having trouble seeing, but they appeared to be far more masculine than usual.

Hermione gaped. "That's not Ginny," she observed idiotically, not quite sure if she was speaking to herself, Professor McGonagall, or the person occupying the bed.

Professor McGonagall's eyebrows exceeded her hairline. "No, indeed, he is not."

Blaise Zabini blinked slowly, looking from Hermione to McGonagall and back again. He fixed his gaze on the Head Girl for a moment, his expression unreadable, and then moved it apologetically back to the Professor.

"Professor McGonagall," he said in greeting. "Good morning." His voice was still sleepy but otherwise perfectly calm and courteous, for all the world as though they had all been in the Great Hall eating breakfast. Despite herself, Hermione found herself admiring his composure.

"_Mr. Zabini_!" McGonagall shrieked, losing her control as her square glasses teetered dangerously on the edge of her nose, "what in Merlin's name are you doing in here? And _you_, Miss Granger, have you no sense of propriety? I expected better! Of _both_ of you! You know perfectly well that the private rooms for the Head Boy and Girl are privileges, and I expected them to be treated as such! The mere fact that you were both allowed roommates this year does not excuse such casual flouting of school rules, not to mention such flagrant abuse of your positions!"

Hermione could feel a flush growing on her cheeks and neck, but Blaise exhibited no such embarrassment. "I really am very sorry, Professor. I realize that this is rather unorthodox." She looked ready to explode once again, but he cut in smoothly. "The truth is that the Slytherin first-year girls were homesick last night, Professor, and one was having nightmares. They needed someone to stay with them and assuage their fears, and Ginny Weasley, as a prefect, was kindhearted enough to offer to do so."

The edge of McGonagall's temper appeared to have been slightly dulled, but she pressed on. "I fail to see how that has anything to do with this—this _spectacle_, Mr. Zabini."

Blaise relaxed even further, and Hermione realized with a start that he might actually be able to talk his way out of this one. "There wasn't room for them anywhere else, Professor. You know how large my room is; I offered to let them stay there, and Ginny in turn offered me her bed for the night. I assure you, Professor, that Hermione and I haven't been engaged in anything contrary to the school rules." When McGonagall hesitated, he added in that same soothing, persuasive tone, "It was just for the one evening, of course, and I assure you that it won't happen again."

McGonagall's frown was as deep as ever, but she now appeared more taken aback than furious. It wasn't easy to tell if she believed the story or not; for that matter, _Hermione_ wasn't sure if she herself believed it or not. "We'll discuss this later, then. In the meantime I shall retrieve Miss Weasley from the Slytherin dungeons." She took in Hermione's state of near-undress and added with what might almost be a hint of amusement, "I would suggest that you both attire yourselves more appropriately and that you, Zabini, return to your own dormitory as soon as possible. I apologize for the interruption, Miss Granger." And with a swirl of maroon fabric, she turned and was gone. The door shut itself with a click behind her.

Hermione turned to Blaise, her eyes flashing. "_What_ is going on?" Her voice was dangerously quiet and her teeth were tightly clenched.

Blaise smiled sheepishly, dropping the smooth façade he'd used on McGonagall. "Look, Hermione, I'm as upset as you are." He took in the look on her face and appeared to change his mind. "Well, maybe not quite so upset." She narrowed her eyes. "This wasn't my fault, honestly. Goyle exiled me from our room, you see. He and Ginny wanted some…." A tinge of pink appeared on his cheeks for the first time that morning. "Some alone time, I believe was the way he put it."

"Do you mean to tell me," Hermione said stiffly, "that I have just been _humiliated_ in front of my Head of House because Ginny felt the urge to go and—_canoodle_ with Gregory Goyle?"

His eyebrow went up in amusement and he smirked attractively. (Now where on earth had _that_ come from?) "Canoodle?" She blushed. Again. "Yes, I'd say that about sums it up. And believe me, I wasn't too eager to hang around. I just hope it's safe to go back—" He cut himself off suddenly, eyes widening in panic. "Oh, Merlin's _beard_!"

"What?" she asked, startled out of her cold fury by his change in tone.

He let out another curse, this one quite a bit stronger, looking far more horrified than he had while confronting the Professor. "McGonagall's going down there! She'll catch them for sure, unless—do you have any Floo Powder? I've got to warn them before she makes it to the dungeons."

"Just above the fireplace. But—" No sooner had the words come out of her mouth than he had flung aside the blankets and stood up. To her relief, he was quite appropriately attired, with a modest dressing gown tied over his pajamas. The thought reminded her abruptly of her own lack of clothing, and that was enough to set her temper off again. "Blaise Zabini, you have intruded quite rudely on my private room, and now you want to interrupt our roommate's tryst while I'm standing here in my nightgown?"

He seemed to have forgotten the nightgown as well, and his eyebrow went back up (though the smirk disappeared entirely) as he took in her dishabille. She found herself blushing even more violently, something she'd previously thought impossible; the dress covered all the essentials, but the fabric was entirely too thin and the neck dipped a good bit lower than she'd have liked.

"Yes, you are, aren't you?" he replied in a measured voice that she couldn't quite interpret, just before shrugging off his dressing gown and offering it to her.

She took it without thinking and slipped it on automatically, pulling it tight and tying the belt securely about her waist, and then her befuddled brain kicked in again and she realized that while his pajama trousers were more than decent, he wasn't wearing anything above the waist. By the time it occurred to her to object, he'd rushed back toward the fireplace, tossed in a handful of Floo Powder, and said, "Blaise Zabini's room!" And then she was far too busy trying (unsuccessfully) not to stare at his smooth, bare back and shoulders to say anything at all, as her eyesight had chosen that particularly inopportune moment to become fully refocused. _Oh, for Merlin's sake, Hermione, think about something else!_ So she did.

The dressing gown was thick and warm on the outside with a silk lining that felt heavenly against her arms. It smelled of sandalwood and some fragrant, vaguely spicy scent she didn't recognize, and—_Stop it! That's _not_ what you should be focusing on!_

Fortunately the Floo connection opened at just that moment, and Blaise stuck his head directly into the fire. She heard giggling in the background, and she recognized the voice as that of her roommate.

Ginny. The girl was going to pay, and pay dearly. Of all the selfish, inconsiderate, blockheaded things to do—and on top of it all, Ginny had been the one person who knew of Hermione's longstanding secret crush on none other than the Head Boy, the crush which Hermione was currently attempting very assiduously to ignore. The situation was bad enough without it. But it was remarkably difficult to maintain one's composure when the object of one's fancies was kneeling, bare-chested and hair tousled appealingly, in front of one's fireplace. How could Ginny do this to her?

Blaise was speaking urgently into the fire, and he appeared to have gotten the message through, because a moment later he withdrew and broke the connection. He stood up and turned to her, continuing his earlier explanation before she had a chance to say anything.

"I really do apologize, Hermione. But I did ask your permission, you know."

She stared at him in confusion. "What?"

"Last night, around three thirty, when I came up here. I woke you up—sorry for that as well—and explained, then I asked if you minded. You just said "All right," and went back to sleep."

Hermione sank down onto her bed, letting her face fall into her hands. She stayed that way for a moment before sighing and looking back up at him (_at his _eyes_, Hermione, not his chest!_) and explaining in a quavering voice, "Neville and I were working on Potions. I'd just tested his Befuddlement Draught before coming up to bed, and it's only worn off now—at three thirty, I expect I was still confused enough to misunderstand, then promptly forget about the whole thing."

He opened his mouth, then closed it again, clearly not sure what to say. His confused expression was absolutely adorable. Hermione found herself casting around for something to interrupt that dangerous train of thought, and she settled almost immediately on the outrage she'd been holding in abeyance since he'd gone for the Floo Powder, launching once more into her interrupted rant, this time not bothering to keep her voice calm and controlled.

"But that is _entirely_ beside the point! How could she do something like that? Ginny knows perfectly well that I go to bed earlier than she does—if you hadn't bothered to wake me up, I'd never have known you were there!" She was on her feet again, getting into her stride, and she found that it was considerably easier to avoid staring when she was shouting at him. "And you, Zabini, ought to have recognized the signs of Befuddlement—Head Boy, indeed! You should have known I wasn't properly aware of the situation when you asked me. What if I'd gotten up and started changing, or—and didn't it occur to Ginny how dangerous it was to give a _boy_ the password into our room, much less _send him up_ in the middle of the night? That kind of situation is just asking for trouble. What if you'd—taken advantage, or—"

Now he was angry, as well. "Are you implying that I'd do something like that?"

"No, that's not the point—the point is that she should have known better, because—"

"Because I'm a Slytherin, is that it? Willing to prey on the weak and innocent?"

"_No_, you idiot, because it's just common sense! Anything might have happened!" She was breathing rapidly now and all but shaking in anger, and he was staring back at her with a frightening intensity. Another thought occurred to her. "And Professor McGonagall, what must she be think—"

Suddenly she was cut off completely as he moved forward, took her by the arms, and kissed her. Hard. She froze, her mind going absolutely blank, until he released her and stepped back a moment later. Hermione's jaw dropped open in complete shock.

He was watching her impassively, his mask of debonair aloofness back with a vengeance. "I could have done that at any time last night," he said. "But I didn't, and I would never 'take advantage,' as you said. I'll thank you not to cast aspersions on my character."

_Blaise__ Zabini just kissed me._ It was slowly sinking in. _He did it to prove a point, true, but—Blaise Zabini just kissed me._

It occurred to her that he was waiting for a response. So she gave him one.

Hermione reached up, took his face in her hands, and brought it back down to hers. She half expected him to pull away, so when instead he responded by wrapping his arms around her waist and drawing her closer, she felt a rush of giddy excitement. Or maybe that was just due to the fact that she could feel the smooth, warm muscles in his shoulders through the dressing gown, or the way his lips were moving—somehow they were simultaneously firm and gentle—against her own.

She wasn't sure how much longer they stood there, her fingers wrapped in his hair, until their lips parted, and he gave her a smirk that made her go weak at the knees. "So, Hermione," he said casually, "do you suppose Professor McGonagall would call this a 'flagrant abuse of our positions'?"

She giggled breathlessly (Hermione Granger never giggled…), and he released her once more, the smirk turning into a full-fledged grin. "Or perhaps it's 'casual flouting of school rules'?"

His warm brown eyes were sparkling with mischief and something else she couldn't quite name, but she had a feeling it was in her own expression as well.

He cleared his throat. "I should probably be getting back to the dungeons. Professor McGonagall will be there by now." She nodded, not quite sure she trusted herself to speak, as he walked with obvious reluctance back toward the door and opened it. Then, turning over his shoulder, he asked, "I'll see you in the library this afternoon, I suppose?" Apparently, the look on her face was answer enough. She sank slowly down onto her bed when he had gone, wrapping her arms around herself and realizing with another rush of giddiness that she was still wearing his dressing gown.

_Ginny Weasley,_ she concluded after a moment, _I may never be angry with you again._


End file.
